


Torture, or reflection, or the savoring of loneliness

by WhatATime



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Robin: Son of Batman (Comics), Son of Batman (2014)
Genre: Angst, Art, Bat Brothers, Bat Family, Batfamily Feels, Blue Eyes, Brotherly Angst, Damian Wayne Feels, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne is Robin, Damian Wayne is an Artist, Damian Wayne-centric, Eyes, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Ghosts, Green Eyes, He likes art a lot, Hurt, Insecurity, Loneliness, Mother-Son Relationship, Painting, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 17:58:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17309219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatATime/pseuds/WhatATime
Summary: A tortured artist this poor, green-eyed boy was.





	Torture, or reflection, or the savoring of loneliness

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Here is the long-waited and asked for sequel to my story "Green Eyes," which you can read at this link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15799641, but both of these stories are standalone (hence why I posted them as such).
> 
> Enjoy, y'all!

 

Blue.

 

Damian blinked at himself in the mirror. Everything looked the same.

 

Except that his eyes were now blue. The same shade of  blue his father and brother’s wore.

 

He smiled.

 

Damian knew he’d have to take them off before leaving his bathroom. They could never know (would never know). But he was so happy to look normal, feel normal, feel like he was a part of something.

 

He hated his acid green eyes. He only shared them with Ra’s. He wanted to share something with his paternal side. Now, he could (only when he was in the bathroom, of course, but anything was better than nothing).

 

He waited another minute before taking the contacts out. He blinked a few times, his face drooping slightly at the sight of his actual eye color. He sighed, leaving the bathroom.

…

“Robin, focus,” Bruce whispered into the comm.

“I am focused,” Damian said back, equally quiet.

“No you’re not.”

“I don’t believe this is the setting. Do you?”

“On my count.”

Damian prepared himself.

Bruce counted down.

 

Then the fell to the floor.

 

Damian never did well thinking in action. He’d learned from his formative years that fighting was more brute force and instinct than planning and calculating. Sure, he could do it, but it never served him any better than just jumping in.

 

He suspected that this was the reason he and his father never worked well together. The family constantly said he was too rash, too fast to act, that he needed to wait. He wished they’d stop.

 

It was just rubbing in the fact that he was too different to belong.

 

He wished his mother were still alive. He used to belong at her side.

 

(“My Alexander.”)

…

Maya’s eyes were green. Damian’s kind of green too. He liked them.

 

He had more in common with Maya than his father’s family. Maya was most his family (she and Goliath).

 

“When you called…” Maya trailed off as she gave him a hug. “It’s been too long.”

Damian rolled his eyes (they didn’t talk enough).

“I missed you.”

“And I you.” His voice was half a grumble.

“How’s Mr. Batman?” The sarcasm was obvious. She was heavy handed in that manner, something he didn’t share but admired.

“They’re children.”

 _“The lot of them?_ Man, kids these days, _am I right_?”

He felt the corners of his mouth curve upwards.

“Where’re we going?”

Damian hadn’t thought of a place. They could wander. “Out.”

“Look, I get you like this brooding thing and being all ‘Son of Batman-y,’ but tell me where you want to go, or we’re going to Bat Burgers.”

“Batburgers it is.”

 

Maya’s eyes were green.

…

“You got the eyes wrong.”

 

Damian turned to his father. He hadn’t even heard the man come in. He didn’t like to paint around anyone. It made his stomach do loops like those rollercoasters Dick took him to for his birthday last year.

 

“What do you mean?” Damian asked.

“Selina’s eyes are blue.”

“No, they’re not. They’re green.”

The man grunted. “You sure?”

Damian was mostly sure. He hadn’t thought of them any other way.

 

They fact that Selina’s eyes were green bothered him enough. It’d be a small mercy for God to make them blue. After all, his mother had brown ones. If he couldn’t share eyes with her, he’d rather not share them with his father’s lover either.

 

“They’re prettier blue.”

 

Damian couldn’t help but grimace.

 

After a shrug, his father left.

 

Damian smudged the eye, ruining the painting.

 

But what did it matter if it wasn’t pretty anymore?

…

Damian found photography was enjoyable.

 

He didn’t need as many materials.

 

He could do it anywhere.

 

It didn’t require as much time as painting, but the attention to detail was of the same caliber.

 

So, he took lots of pictures.

 

When he was in the mood, Damian would climb to the tops of Wayne Tower or some other desolate rooftop to capture pictures.

 

His current venture?

 

Eyes.

 

People had all different colors.

 

He found himself printing out pictures of them all, arranging them by levels of beauty and depth.

 

Ra’s always said a man’s eyes were his soul.

 

What did that mean of this woman? Her eyes were a placid blue like a duck pond in a children’s cartoon. Was she calm? At peace? Her dress didn’t suggest such. She’d worn a tight-fitting business suit and heels that clicked. If one had seen her eyebrows, they’d see the steeliness behind those calm blue ponds.

 

“What the…”

 

Damian sighed. Of course Jason would be the one to interrupt his studies. It seemed the man had been coming around the manner more as of late. He’d come to Damian and ask after his father.

 

“What’s this about, squirt?”

 

“Art project,” Damian answers curtly.

 

“For school?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then what for?”

 

“Recreational purposes.” If Jason was entitled to his Shakespeare, wasn’t Damian to his art?

 

“Why’re all the blue-eyed ones over there and the others in another pile. Something against blue-eyed people?”

 

“Something against aryans, Anti-Führer?”

 

“Father is in his study. Now leave me be, Todd.”

 

“No, I’m intrigued now.” Jason took a seat by Damian, brushing against the younger’s leg. “So, what’re we doing?”

 

Damian sighed. “Nothing.” He threw the placid blue pond to his right, starting a pile of its own.

 

“Are these randos from the street?”

 

“I suppose you could call them that.”

 

“Pretty good quality.”

 

“I-- thank you.”

 

Jason chuckled. “You’re welcome.”

 

Over the years, Damian had learned that Jason wasn’t as insufferable as he first thought the Red Hood to be. Depending on the activity, he was even the best possible company (if Dick wasn’t available, of course). They had similar histories, a common friend and foe. It made sense.

 

“Ever finish that portrait of Selina for her birthday?”

 

“I drew her cats instead.”

 

“Why? It was looking pretty nice.”

 

“I lost interest.”

 

“That sucks.” Jason flitted through a stack of photos he’d collected.

 

Damian shrugged.

 

“Dick been around lately?”

 

“Not since the Sunday before last.”

 

“Has he called?”

 

“Are you looking for him?” Damian asked.

 

“No… just wondering.’

 

“Why?”

 

“I dunno, kid. Can’t I wonder?” Jason made eye contact, a grin forming on his lips.

 

Damian couldn’t help but smile back (even if the sheer blueness of Jason’s eyes made his tongue dry up and shrivel like that of the silent soldiers of the pit).

…

He wore them again.

 

Damian found himself locking the bathroom door and putting the contacts in daily now.

 

He liked things better this way.

 

He wanted to gouge his slimy emeralds out. Glass water droplets would make for a better existence.

 

Blue was art, after all. The pretty kind.

…

Dick gazed sadly upon his youngest brother.

 

Damian was paler, duller (the rest of his health being intact was mercy enough).

 

Did no one notice? His kid was spending a drizzling afternoon sketching ponds.

 

No less alert though. He saw Damian eyeing him from the garden, most likely waiting for Dick to leave the car before accepting their usual embrace. Dick sighed as he left the car.

 

Damian hurriedly left his spot on a jagged rock by the duck pond that’d been around since Bruce had been a boy.

 

“Hey, D,” he said easily, hugging the boy.

“Grayson.”

“What’re you up to?”

“Drawing.”

“Sounds fun.”

“I suppose.”

Dick punctuated the hug with a peck on Damian’s cheek.

The boy blushed. “How long will you be here?”

“All weekend. B needs me for something.”

Damian nodded.

“Is that paint or blood?”

“Hm?”

“Your hand.”

There was a red stream down Damian’s palm.

“Shouldn’t be touching sharp rocks, kiddo.”

“Better perspective.”

“Uh-huh.” Dick dragged Damian inside to clean the wound up.

 

(his kid)

…

Dick came back.

 

Damian liked Dick.

 

Dick was his first relationship in Gotham. The thing that tethered him here when his father died. Had Dick not kept him here, he would’ve went back to the League (which didn’t seem like a bad idea often), but now he was stuck here.

 

Stuck in Gotham with a family that was nothing like him and only half loved him (except for Dick, of course). He was Dick’s son in all but name.

 

Dick came back, helped Damian clean off his hand when he cut it on the rock. He hadn’t meant to cut it though. Firstly, because it hurt. Secondly, because red hadn’t been pretty in years.

…

“My eyes work fine,” Damian whispered.

Dick didn’t know what even brought on the statement. Maybe it was Bruce claiming Damian didn’t see the gunmen on patrol earlier, which in Bruce’s defense, had earned Damian a bullet wound in the left arm. “What’d you mean?”

 

Damian’s eyes were trained on the soft light that was the television screen, but the glass lid over them signed tears threatening to spill over. “I saw them, but the risk…if that boy’s idiot father hadn’t-- who brings children to drug deals anyway? No parent of any value. I saw them…” He trailed off, and a tear fell.

 

It was probably the meds. Alfred had given Damian pain meds and a sedative. The boy was merely tired. He was fine, nothing to worry about.

 

“S’okay, D.” Dick wrapped an arm around the boy, pulling him close. “He just gets scared. You know what happened to Jay…” _And you._

 

Damian let out a small whine and pulled away.

 

Dick shushed him. “You did well, kiddo. I promise.”

 

Soft, emerald green’s glanced at Dick for a second before being obscured from view by the boy’s lids. Damian sniffled. “I see fine.” Hot tears wet Dick’s shirt.

 

“I know.” Dick rubbed circles into Damian’s back. “Bruce does too. He was just upset, okay?”

 

Damian sniffled again.

 

“Go to sleep. You’re tired.”

 

“M’not a baby, Richard.” Damian’s voice was muffled as he nuzzled Dick’s shoulder.

 

“I know.”

 

Damian’s breathing evened out a few minutes later, soft snores coming from the boy.

 

He was tired. That was all.

…

The prettiest thing he’d seen in his life.

 

Damian’d found an eye in his photography ventures. He just knew painting it would make it prettier (and it had).

 

Blueberry blue with azure hints. A beautiful, clean ocean of paint.

 

“The wall?” an incredulous voice asked from behind him.

 

Damian turned to see Tim. “Problem, Drake?”

 

“Why the wall?”

 

“It’s gorgeous, is it not?” Damian admired the picture.

 

“But… the wall? Alfred’s not--”

 

“It’s my room to do with what I wish. Father said so.”

 

“I think he meant you could get curtains, not deface a whole wall.”

 

Damian clenched his paintbrush. Hadn’t Dick said that if one had nothing kind to say, nothing should be said at all? Surely Tim Drake, a supposed cultured individual would know the rule. “That’s not kind, Drake.” He hadn’t meant to make his voice soft.

 

The expression in the teen’s face changed as fast as a bullet in a chamber, from eased indifference to a smirk. “I was joking.”

 

“It wasn’t funny.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

Damian nodded, sniffing as he looked back to continue detailing his art.

 

_Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault._

_…_

Music was an art as well.

 

Damian’d explored it as much as any boy forced to learn the classics had. After all, there was nothing visual about music. He couldn’t see it. He couldn’t touch it, so why would it interest him?

 

There was one person, though, that liked music.

 

Cassandra Cain was a particular enthusiast.

 

Whenever she came over, she’d always drag Damian over to the music room. They’d duet on the ivory piano keys or speak in morse code on the drums. Music was a language for her the way drawing and painting was for him.

 

He wouldn’t dare take it away.

 

“What’s with the eye?” Cass asked, inspecting the back wall of Damian’s art room. “Is it wet?”

 

“No.”

 

She brought her thin fingertips across it, smile resting on her face. “Pretty.”

 

“Thank you.”

…

A rose by any other name supposedly smelled just as sweet.

 

Damian wasn’t sure that he believed that.

…

“Hafid.”

 

“Talia.” Damian ducked a slap from his mother. He smiled.

 

She did as well. “Your absence has been noted.” _I missed you._

 

“As has yours.” _I missed you too._

 

“I was on business,” she defended.

 

“Of course.”

 

“Would you credit me… an embrace?” _I love you._

 

“I suppose.” _The feeling is mutual._

 

They hugged. It was a real one. The kind they only did every few years.

 

“You’re taller,” she noted.

 

“I am,” he agreed.

 

They parted.

 

Her hand tugged his chin (why was it still so smooth?), and their eyes met. Hers were like lukewarm cups of coffee. “Grayson emailed me your marks in school. Ra’s was pleased.”

 

Damian nodded.

 

She sighed, releasing him. “Where is your father? I must speak to him.” There she went, screaming ‘Habibi’ down the hall.

 

Then he woke, as he always did: Gasping for air, face wet with tears, shirt soaked in sweat, alone.

…

Damian gifted Jason a blue hoodie for his birthday. It suited the young man much better.

 

Though the family mostly made a joke of it, he stood by his decision, happy it brought a smile at least.

 

“Did you hear about the Blue Hood?” Dick asked, checking the grapples from his corner.

 

Tim grinned from behind his laptop, still typing away. “The Blue Hood?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“What about him?”

 

“Dastardly, I hear. Right, D?” Dick glanced at Damian.

 

Damian rolled his eyes, not dignifying the answer with a response.

 

“Just dastardly. Saw him helping some lady across the street with her groceries.”

 

“That’s Damian.”

 

“What?”

 

“I have feed of him helping some old lady.”

 

“Show me.”

 

Damian looked up from his book now. “You’re stalking me now?”

 

“Yeah, I was scared you’d spray paint a wall blue.”

 

Dick chuckled while Tim came over to show Dick.

 

Damian rolled his eyes once again. _Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault._

…

He wondered if he should save Tim.

 

Damian watched a bloodied and drugged Red Robin from the rafters of a warehouse.

 

The Joker hummed from the side.

 

Damian didn't like the Joker, but did he dislike Drake more?

 

With a swish, the Joker was on the floor, blood pooling around him.

 

Damian sighed as he helped up Tim. “Red, you with me?”

 

Tim didn’t answer.

 

He pressed his comm. “Batman, I have Red Robin. We’re in the Diamond District.”

 

 _“You didn’t think to call before leaving? We were looking for you.”_ There was a tinge of worry in his father’s tone.

 

“I apologize. Heading back now.”

 

_“I’ll come pick you up.”_

 

“I have the--”

 

_“Is the Joker incapacitated?”_

 

“Yes, but I--”

 

_“Wait there.”_

 

Damian humphed but sat down, pulling Tim to his side.

 

Tim giggled. “Gonna paint him blue?”

 

If fratricide were an option…

…

Damian didn’t like Tim.

 

He didn’t hate Tim, but Tim was his least favorite brother and sibling.

 

He seemed to only say things to upset Damian, and Daman never knew a response to upset Tim back.

 

“He paints everything blue, Bruce,” Tim said with a slur, leaning tiredly against their father as Alfred sewed up wounds.

 

“He can paint whatever color he wants,” his father said with a smirk.

 

“Blue’s boring.”

 

“Why?”

 

“It’s a sad color. Everything that is blue is sad. When someone’s sad, they’re blue. Tears are blue on TV. Water’s blue.”

 

“Mmhm.”

 

“My mom’s eyes were blue too.” Tim sniffled. “She had a blue clutch that matched ‘em-- were your mom’s eyes blue?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Where’s Damian?”

 

“At the computer.”

 

“What’s he doing?”

 

“Probably listening to you talk.”

 

Tim hummed quietly.

 

“Damian,” his father called, amusement evident in his voice.

 

Damian slunk over to his (hypothetical) family. “Father,” he said with clear displeasure.

 

Tim yanked Damian closer, nearly knocking Alfred out in the process. “Sit down.”

 

Damian obeyed.

 

Tim delivered a wet kiss on Damian’s nose. “I love you.”

 

Damian scrunched his nose. Maybe he didn’t totally dislike Tim.

…

“Damian, I have to go out. Can Tim stay with you?” Bruce asked. Alfred had enough to worry about without putting  the teen into his schedule.

 

“I’ll be painting.” Damian was in the process of playing in his breakfast, which had become some sort of a pastime in the mornings.

 

“He won’t bother you.”

 

Dick had told Bruce that Damian’s art room was one no one should enter without permission. Even Alfred left the maintenance of the room to the boy. Most of the family, rather than purchasing entrance, hovered in the doorway whenever they wanted to speak to him or see the newest artwork.

 

Tim, Bruce knew, had never been inside the room. He wasn't’ sure if it was Tim’s choice or Damian’s though.

 

Damian pushed his plate forward. “I suppose.” His chair scraped the floor as he stood. Damian approached a resting Tim on the other side of the table. He tapped him once. “Come, Drake.”

 

Tim cracked an eye open. “Hm?”

 

“Come.” Damian took him by the hand and led him out of the room.

 

Bruce sighed. _His kids._

…

It was hard to paint with a lump in one’s lap, so Damian took to drawing.

 

Why he had to spend his day off school with Tim Drake was beyond him, but he did his best to make the most of it, as Dick would’ve told him to do such.

 

“Why do you make everything blue?” Tim asked quietly, staring out the window.

 

“I don’t,” Damian answered.

 

“You do.”

 

“I’m drawing a flower right now. Is it’s stem not green?”

 

“It’s a cornflower.”

 

“I don’t make everything blue.”

 

“Are you blue?”

 

“No.” What kind of question was that? Damian’s skin was tan like his mother’s.

 

“I mean in the metaphorical sense.”

 

“Elaborate,” Damian demanded.

 

“Sad.”

 

“No, I’m not sad.”

 

…

Some nights, Damian had heard, were made for torture, or reflection, or the savoring of loneliness.

 

He spent many of his nights doing all three, though it was hard to do the latter when his father insisted upon reading in his art room. A tortured artist this poor, green-eyed boy was.

 

He knew this as he painted an eye-- his eye.

 

A family portrait was in order with Alfred’s birthday coming up. His father requested a small portrait, something he could frame and wrap for the butler from the whole family.

 

He liked most of the picture. Dick’s icy blues and Jason’s white streak. It all went together beautifully (ignoring one factor).

 

Damian payed attention to every detail, sans the blemishes. It was necessary. The picture had to be perfect.

 

He heard footsteps behind him. Then Duke was at his side. “Hey,” the teen said, his warm breath on Damian’s neck.

 

“Thomas, what do you require?”

 

“I just came to see it.”

 

“Did you?” Damian asked absentmindedly.

 

“Yeah, and I came to see if you want to join me and Tim for a Star Wars marathon. We ordered a pizza.”

 

“No.” Damian finished the red curtain behind the family with a blot. “Thank you for offering.” He struggled with common social phrasings still. He never learned them when he was younger. It was harder than people made it out to be. A second language he wasn’t quite used to.

 

“He’s coming,” his father said from his chair.

 

“I’m not hungry,” Damian argued.

 

“You haven’t eaten since lunch. Patrol’s soon.”

 

“Pennyworth's absence does not mean I’m not capable of finding my own nourishment.”

 

“Go.”

 

Damian humphed but set the painting down.

 

“It’s done?” his father asked.

 

“A few finishing details,” Damian said.

 

With a nod and a grunt, his father returned to his book,

 

Duke smiled. “Bye, B.”

 

“Duke.”

 

Then they were gone.

…

Tim wasn’t sure about Damian.

 

Well, he knew the kid was a certified sociopath, but he could tell Damian tried. Tried to fight his instincts, his raising. And the kid did a good job most of the time.

 

He did wonder about what Damian did with his free time.

 

Damian went to school. Then Damian disappeared until dinner. Then he disappeared until patrol. Then he was dead to the world until breakfast the next day.

 

He never saw Damian on weekends though. Alfred would note the absence to Bruce, but the man never did anything about it. Alfred would probably have to knock Bruce in the head to make him get it.

 

He supposedly ate, considering Damian retained his muscle and wasn’t getting skinnier. It didn’t seem like Damian slept. The bags under his eyes had bags. They were omnipresent, became accepted as Damian’s appearance a few months ago.

 

Of course, one could usually find him in the art room, except when the door was closed (Alfred would open it whenever he came by).

 

He didn’t want to say anything. Only God knew how Damian would take it.

 

Even now, Damian sat dejectedly in the corner of the sofa, staring at the curtained window with his head propped up on his arm. He looked half asleep.

 

“How’s school?” Tim asked, feeling more like parent than a brother (but someone had to be).

 

“Fine,” Damian answered.

 

“Do you like the movie?” Duke tried.

 

“No.”

 

Tim wrapped an arm around Damian. To his surprise, the boy didn’t pull away.

…

_You are your mother's child, but you won’t learn. No one can protect you. Not your aunt. Not your mother. Not your father...Your world holds but one truth, boy...You continue to exist at my sufferance._

 

An echo.

 

Cold, tight chains released themselves from his side, clinking to the floor. His arms and legs could finally breathe. Pain radiated from everywhere. He kept his eyes closed. Damian took a breath from the floor before trying to stand. His legs were noodles. He swayed until a gloved hand steadied him.

 

“Damian.” His father’s gloved hand apparently.

 

“Batman,” he scratched.

 

“Don’t talk.” He lifted Damian into his arms.

 

Damian allowed his head to fall, chilled kevlar kissing his cheek. His nose became aware of the intermingling aromas of burnt flesh and blood confluenced with sweat.

 

The jostling was kept to a minimum in transporting him to the Batwing.

 

Damian heard shuffling as the plane took off.

 

He woke up to hushed voices, felt hands pulling at his blood-stained clothing and bandaging him before everything darkened to a haze once again.

…

“Touch me and die,” Damian said quietly, not in the mood for interruptions (he’d had enough in the past two days) and willing to stop them even if it meant paining his nose. He again on his way to perfecting a portrait, one of Alfred this time. His ribs pained him as he bent over the small canvas. The pain like a small searing, reaching throughout his middle. He couldn’t do detail without gazing closely though.

 

“How’d you know I was there?” Jason asked, coming from behind Damian with a tray.

 

“You’re an imbecile.”

 

“I brought you lunch.”

 

Damian rolled his eyes. “No, thank you. Leave me now.”

 

Jason’s silence filled the room for a solid minute. “Doing okay? Heard your Grandpappy knocked you around.”

 

Damian couldn’t help but smile. “Not before he coughed blood.”

 

A chuckle. “Good for you, kid,” Jason said. “Whatcha painting?”

 

“Nothing you need to pay any mind.”

 

“The cat, huh?” He took a seat on the floor beside Damian. “Should you be bent over like that? Has to hurt.”

 

“I am fine.”

 

“Wanna go to Batburgers?”

 

“No.”

 

“The library?”

 

“No.”

 

“Outside.”

 

“No.” He was fine where he was.

 

“Babybird told me--”

 

“Must you use asinine nicknames everytime you speak? It’s a childish endeavor you’re much too old and educated to pursue, don’t you think?”

 

“Ouch.”

 

It was quiet once again.

 

Damian leaned further forward, biting his lip as the pain increased. It felt good in it’s own way. He moved to dot a splotch of fur white when Jason punched him in the arm. A long line of white littered with gray marred the picture.

 

His jaw dropped as he turned to Jason.

 

The young man merely shrugged. “Sorry,” he said. “But hey… the eyes were all wrong anyway.”

 

Damian didn’t know why, but that hurt more than the searing pain in his chest and the tears pricking at his eyes. He jumped at Jason with a punch.

 

Jason grabbed his wrist.

 

Damian tried with his other one. This time nailing Jason in the cheek. He then kicked Jason in the back of the knee, causing the young man to topple over into a table.

 

The circus-themed vase Damian’d made in art class the previous week shattered.

 

“Get out.”

 

“Kid…”

 

“Get out! Get out! Get out!” Damian demanded, tears now cascading down his cheeks.

 

And for once, Jason did.

…

Bruce wondered what had caused his youngest to flee to the coat closet. He’d been about to go out to ‘enjoy nature.’ Alfred was cleaning the computer and he had nowhere to go. He hadn’t expected to find Damian curled up in the corner, face scrunched in what he read to be displeasure, possibly pain. Dried tear streaks were on the boy’s cheeks.

 

He lifted the boy up carefully. Damian, though technically a teenager, was still so small. Why was he so small? Would he grow up to be as big as Jason or Bruce? By Bruce’s estimations, Damian would inherit his mother’s slender figure as he had her soft skin and devious smirk.

 

Damian huffed at the jostling, his eyes forming slits to glance at Bruce as he sleepily rested his cheek on the man’s shoulder (beautiful basil eyes). “Todd broke my vase.”

 

“Did he apologize?” Bruce headed in the direction of the boy’s bedroom. He sat down on the bed, relishing any time he was able to hold his son, as the action was rarely permitted.

 

Damian humphed. “It was to be gifted to Grayson upon his return this weekend.”

 

“I’m sure we can find something else to give him.”

 

“Matched his parents’ costumes.”

 

“I’ll see what Alfred can do.”

 

Damian’s eyes closed again.

 

Bruce took the neon orange pill bottle from Damian’s nightstand and popped a pill out. “Here.”

 

Damian’s hand slowly found its way to Bruce’s, and the medication was consumed.

 

Bruce then laid his son on the bed, tucking him in as any good father would.

 

The boy didn’t protest the impromptu nap (most likely because he’d been napping already), taking another last look at Bruce.

 

Beautiful basil eyes.

…

“You’re sketching me?” Maya asked Damian, her emerald greens piercing him with amusement.

 

Damian snorted. “Of course, chica.”

 

“I’m prettier than over half the things you draw.”

 

He smiled. “Maybe.”

 

“Is it done yet?”

 

“Everything but the eyes.” The eyes were the only white thing left on the page. He sniffed the pleasant aroma of graphite and wax. The searing in his middle had regressed to a dull soreness.

 

“You always save the eyes for last,” she sighed, grinning. “Why is that?”

 

“They deserve the most care and attention.”

 

“Why?”

 

Damian sighed. “I don’t know.”

…

Tim was walking through the hallways of the manor towards his bedroom when he heard talking in the kitchen. He entered the room to see Damian and Bruce of all people not cooking, but gluing together what looked to be a vase.

 

Damian’s arms crossewd themselves as the boy frowned. He was seated by the stove, wrapped in a blanket. It could be classified as cute, if not for the purple and blue bruise surrounding the boy’s broken nose and Damian’s split lip. “You’re not doing it right. Let me.”

 

“Alfred would never forgive me if you cut yourself,” Bruce said, hunched over the island with glue and tweezers.

 

Damian turned to Tim. “Can’t Tim do it then?”

 

Tim’s brows raised at the use of his actual name.

 

Damian seemed to catch it too.  “I’m sure no one will care if he is cut.”

 

Tim grinned. “Hey, B.”

 

“Tim,” Bruce returned.

 

“What’re you guys--”

 

“Jason knocked the table over and broke Damian’s vase for Dick.”

 

“And you’re fixing it?” Tim surmised.

 

“It’s all wrong,” Damian said before Bruce could respond. “Father, you’re--”

 

“Like a try, Tim,” Bruce interrupted, stepping back and holding out the materials to the teen, now revealing his own scowl and furrowed brows.

 

Tim chuckled. “Sure.” Those two were too alike.

…

“Todd broke it, but Drake fixed it,” Damian said quickly.

 

Dick examined the vase carefully. “It’s beautiful, Lil’ D. Thank you.”

 

Damian wasn’t sure what to say at that point, his face flushed. He slackened, releasing some tension on the pulling bandages under his shirt. He was proud to say the least. He’d known Dick would love it from the moment the idea sprouted. The moment now was mere proof.

 

Dick’s eyes glazed over with tears. He blinked them away. “Guess I’m gonna have to start keeping flowers now, huh?”

 

“I suppose you will.”

…

“I meant to visit you on your birthday but Ra’s…” Damian trailed off as he played with the dew-filled grass. It was early morning. No one was up but him, which made sense considering they’d just arrived back from patrol two hours ago. Damian hadn’t slept either. He couldn’t.

 

“I…” He sighed. “You are missed.” He missed her. Every single part of her he missed, from her whacks during sparring to her petty threats. “Why won’t he bring you back?” He used to always bring her back. “I wish he’d bring you back.”

 

Damian wiped warm tears from both his cheeks and sniffled. _You are-- and will always be-- an assassin at heart, my lovely boy. Your mother's child._ “My mother’s child.” The boy’s voice was a rasp, filled with anguish.

 

A sad smile. “Even in death, you haunt me. A _ghoul_ you truly are, Mother.”

 

_There is no Hell. No Heaven. Only what we make for ourselves._

…

Blue came in seven distinct shades, each with its own name: azure, prussian, cobalt, cerulean, sapphire, indigo, and lapis. Damian loved them all.

 

Yet, none of them could be found in Ra’s’ compound. The buildings were tan. The shades were lined with mahogany. The uniforms were charcoal. The katanas were silver. Nothing was blue except the sky above him.

 

Damian liked it that way.

…

Gone. He was just gone. No notes no trace.

 

Damian disappeared like smoke in the air.

 

Where had he gone, Dick wondered.

…

“You came back?” Maya asked. “Then what was the point in leaving?”

 

“It’s better here,” Damian said, voice a trained low volume he’d learned when he was younger and never forgotten. He stretched his hand to test the pain, having cut it earlier when sparring with Ra’s earlier. It was worse if anything, and looked infected, but he was ignoring it for the time being.

 

“How?”

 

“My father… he-- It just is. The rules are clear. Easier to follow.”

 

“My father wasn’t the easiest guy either.” She took a seat on his rug and crossed her legs. “He made us ghosts.”

 

“And I’m not one?” He could tell she was searching him, sifting through what she knew, what she surmised, conjuring an answer that was appropriate, correct.

 

“You want to be?” she asked, her voice cracking.

 

Tears fighting their way out behind his eyes made them burn. _It’s better than the torture being someone puts me through_ , he wanted to say, but he didn’t. He said, “Yes,” for that was all that mattered to the question.

 

A small wet stream ran down her right cheek. A glass film over emerald jewels. She leaned forward, wrapping her lean arms around him.

 

He knew the embrace was meant to be some form of solace, but it did nothing for him. He wanted to ask her to release him, to let him feel the pain, to let him fade into the black and through the wall like any good ghost could. Why wouldn’t she let him?

 

She stayed until he was nearly asleep.

 

He used her lap as a pillow, eyes having long given way to the heaviness.

 

She hugged him once more before laying him on the rug. It wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t a soft cotton either.

 

He let out a small whine of complaint, mumbled her name.

“Right here, but I have to go,” she whispered. Maya pressed a kiss to his forehead.

 

He allowed her last words to escape him as he drifted off.

…

“Where is he, Ra’s?” Bruce growled.

 

“I assume you’ve _scoured_ my compound for him then?” Ra’s smiled. Damian swore that was the face of the Devil sans the cherry skin and raisin horns.

 

“He’s my son.”

 

“He is his mother’s as well, Detective.”

 

“She’s dead.”

 

“I’m well aware.”

 

Damian watched the scene from above in a blindspot even the Batman wasn’t aware of. He came back to Ra’s for two reasons. One, it was easier than living in Gotham. Two, Ra’s would burn Gotham if he didn’t.

 

And he knew Gotham was his father’s true love and mistress. The thing that let the broken boy with wet cheeks who became a man whose had dried out. The motivation to live, he even guessed. He’d rather be under Ra’s than take that away, than be the cause of the fall of the Bat and his cohorts. He’d rather die than do that.

 

So, he came back, enjoyed the blue-less world of the League of Assassins, visited his mother’s quarters occasionally. He minded it the first day, and he still missed a stray Gothamite or four, but other than that, he was fine.

 

He was trained to be fine, after all. How could he not be what he was created to be? It made no sense, so he didn’t let it happen.

 

The pain was duller here anyway,

 

And dulled pain was the best kind.

…

There was one part of being with his grandfather again that Damian didn’t like.

 

He hated having to slash throats and impale hearts.

 

It wasn’t that he now found murdering abhorrent either. It was the voice Dick Grayson implanted in him at the age of ten that told him it was wrong. Everytime he even came close to ending a life the voice rang in his head. It hurt.

 

This was why Ra’s sent Damian to kill a whole family. The psychology behind it was infallible. It would prove that he wasn’t soft, that he’d earned his place long ago and hadn’t given it up on his departure, which was why Ra’s called in the comm for him to stop before the action. The man wasn’t as cold as he advertised himself to be. He wanted loyalty more than blood any day.

 

So, having proven such and still possessing free hours, Damian slunk across the street of a nearby diner. He hadn’t come to eat but to watch. He loved to watch people still. That want had not waned. He’d even smuggled a camera on the off-chance he would see something truly photogenic.

 

Contrary to his intruder coming from behind, he did feel the footsteps. He hadn’t stopped feeling the things behind him since the day his uncle was shot in the head. A memory he held quite close to the day he first met his father.

 

“Red Robin,” Damian said.

 

“Dames. What’re you doing here?” Tim asked, crouching beside Damian.

 

“I’m sure you’re intelligent enough to figure it out. I don’t take you for as much as an imbecile as you advertise yourself to be.”

 

A snort. “B came for you.”

 

Damian made a noncommittal noise. It seemed Tim Drake would always interrupt his art.

 

“You could call.”

 

Damian plopped himself on the ledge and extricated a bagged sandwich from a pocket he should’ve been keeping a pistol in (still couldn’t break that habit).

 

“Ziploc?”

 

“The League isn’t that old.” Damian pulled his face mask down and set the camera beside himself.

 

Tim did the same. “Didn’t take you for one to eat on a profiling.”

 

“I’m not going to hurt them.” Damian sighed, watching his smoky breath dissipate. “Any of them,” he added. An assassin’s past times weren’t limited to killing, after all. Even Ra’s liked books and reading. He took another bite of his sandwich, sweet banana and smooth peanut butter.

 

“Okay.” Tim didn’t sound like he believed Damian, but he didn’t care about Tim’s thoughts of him anymore.

 

“What do you want?”

 

“Took me awhile to get a lead on you.”

 

“If you count Maya as a lead.”

 

“She told me ‘cause she cares.”

 

“I hold nothing against her.”

 

“Nightwing misses you,” Tim said.

 

Damian inserted himself into a scene before him. A young woman with blue eyes and blonde hair in a waitress uniform sat across from a young man and baby with the exact same features. A family, he figured. Both women were hunched over the table while the baby-- a girl-- babbled to herself and stuck a fist in her mouth. An interesting sight. He wondered if his parents could’ve ever created a seen like that had his father known of him when he was a baby. It was a pretty thought.

 

“--mian.” Tim laid a hand on Damian’s shoulder.

 

He turned to meet the gorgeous blue eyes that were Tim’s.

 

“You okay?”

 

“Fine.” Damian repacked his sandwich and stood. “I have to get back.”

 

“You’re not due ‘till four. It’s two thirty.”

 

“I have to go.”

 

Tim took his wrist. “One day he’s gonna actually make you do it, you know.”

 

Damian blinked. “What?”

 

“Kill somebody. Maybe a family. Maybe a couple. Maybe a person. But he will.”

 

“I live with myself just fine.”

 

The whites of Tim’s domino squinted before returning to their previous state. “Don’t die. Maybe _send a text_ once a while, so we know you’re still succeeding in that venture. And call Dick ‘cause you know how he blames himself.” _Even when it’s not his fault,_ Tim didn’t say. Because that would also imply it was Damian’s.

 

Damian nodded.

 

Tim released him.

 

The robin flew away, and the ghost became translucent once again.

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is drybonesshallcomealive, so you can come talk to me there as well.
> 
> I'd love to know there or in the comments what you think of the story.
> 
> [March 5, 2019] Sequel has been written, and I'll be posting it soon!


End file.
